


After the storm

by Gastie



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: AU, Cheesy title, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, How the last four soldiers survived Soldier Island, Internal Turmoil, M/M, One Night Stand, Open Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8925079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gastie/pseuds/Gastie
Summary: Blore coming to terms with a one night stand he can't remember with Armstrong.





	

Since reading some great stuff on the fandom I've been really wanting to give back with something of my own.

This centers solely on Blore and Armstrong and any similarities with fics from this small community was done deliberately and is to be taken as a homage to these talented authors.

Please note that English isn't my mother tongue and that it certainly shows despite all my proofreading. Any criticism to improve this piece is more than welcome.

Lastly, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I had fun writing it.

 

 

It was the storm that took him away from his slumber. Even with the long night filled with drugs, the thunder was the one who ripped him away from idyllic unconsciousness.

Quickly he knew he wasn't in his room. He must have crashed in the first bed he found. Everything ached and he guessed the powder and liquor must have grazed his whole being. Every intake of air was so much of an effort he couldn't bring himself to move at first.

Puzzlement helped him get his sense back as he heard a respiration next to him. He startled, having believed to be alone – winced when his body got torn by pain but managed to get up on one elbow. He used his other hand to try and figure out who it was, when a lightning drew Doctor Armstrong's profile, laid down next to him. The more audible snoring reassured Blore he was still alive and well. The most intriguing with the whole situation was why he was sharing his bed, because surely, this must be his bedroom. The fact that Blore was naked wasn't to appease him one bit.

Deciding to get up and regain his own apartments as swiftly as possible, an acute pain shook his guts: from kidney to arse; from abs to guts. No need to be psychic to understand that no innocent ordeal happened in this bed, to his body – innocent being a poor choice of word thinking about all those culprits here united.

His wounded hiccup was too violent to contain and Armstrong stopped snoring, dipped the mattress. After some movement, Blore felt a hand on his hair. Another thunder showed him the good doctor looking at him with alcohol glazed eyes combined with some sort of affection. He didn't know what to do but shock was enough to still him while disgust and bafflement mingled together inside him. Realization dawn upon him, losing his air and voice in the process.

"There's something I have to tell you," avowed Armstrong in the dark, his voice as scratchy as he felt his own. Blore, wide-eyed just hoped he wasn't going to ask for a second go at tonight's exercise – he was already this close to punching him in the face. "Wargrave isn't dead."

That got Blore out of his stupor and his eyes grew wider. Goodbye ephemeral lightness and other thoughts about his possible sexuality; this took priority.

"What do you mean, not dead? With all the brains splattered on the tapestry what do you want to be left of the judge if not the bloody maggots?"

He was so sick of all this blood and torn flesh; so much more than after a life-time fighting crime (not to forget his own. There had been lots of blood too and broken bones, so much).

"No", whispered lightly the doctor as if discussing the weather, "that's the thing, it was a setup."

It was surreal; Armstrong was stroking his short strands while uttering complete nonsense. Blore almost wanted to ask him if he was on drugs or something but with everything that went up their noses this evening and with the way things ended between them…

"This setup was to be able to have someone on the safe side, waiting for the murderer; seeing without being afraid for his life," confessed the doctor with a bit of pride, because, of course, he thought this whole nonsense was _his_ _great_ _plan_.

No amount of illegal substance dancing in his blood could explain how the doctor couldn't see how much of a preposterous idea all this was.

"And what if he was the culprit?" Blore tried not to strangle himself. "How would we have known, if one of us four got iced?! What if _I_ was the murderer? You go telling me stuff like that after we… we,"

His growing agitation made his body coil on itself. He doubled over a bit. Worried, Armstrong brought his head to eye level, taking his chin, concern in his voice: "Are you okay? Hurt anywhere?"

Blore couldn't believe his ears and drew away from the touch. "What do you think? I took it up the arse and you think I'm fine like the bloody rain?" He cried out.

His brain was over stimulated with information; the sex, the judge, death, Landor… No, the judge wasn't dead; he had to concentrate on that. Something had to be done, he had to tell someone. Tell Lombard; yes, the adventurer had the gun and they will need it. And if he's the killer, no way he'll gun them all down without someone to take him out.

"You want something for the pain…?" asked Armstrong, a bit sheepish.

"No! Just don't… don't touch me."

Suspicion blended with repugnance. Blore couldn't breathe, tried calming his nerves down. Too fast he went out of the bed and would have been on the floor if Armstrong hadn't caught him by the shoulders. Blore grew agitated and twisted away from the other man.

"Fine, fine, I got it," Armstrong said cautiously. "Stay put and breath, I need to go find him anyways."

Blore got up promptly – to hell the wobbly legs and any other part of his anatomy – and snatched the shirt Armstrong was going to put on from his hands. The contact with the tissue was soft and warm and a reminiscent from this evening came back to him; Blore had taken this same shirt off Armstrong – _Edward_ at the time in his mind – with as little dexterity possible but great speed.

"You aren't going anywhere until the others know about this," he castigated.

The doctor straightened, a pair of trousers buckled up; a thunder and he saw his irritated glance. Really, there wasn't any way for them to agree on that.

"Justice Wargrave is the most respectable man to ever…,"

But the sergeant detective wasn't listening, still holding the shirt hostage: never the good doctor of Harley Street would go on about without it. As for him, he searched the floor, found his slacks and pullover and pulled them on. At the door he turned around holding out the garment: "Don't waste your breath, doc."

Armstrong went to him and took his property. Their hands didn't just brush they touched completely – Armstrong didn't want it any other way – and the doctor pulled Blore to him, so close their heads almost bumped.

"I know exactly what I am doing, contrary to you it seems and I don’t understand why you are so prissy all of a sudden. But you and I will talk later," he promised, trying to be intimidating, but Blore understood there was nothing murderous about the whole ordeal.

As if proving his words, his height preventing Blore from avoiding what was to come, Armstrong made their lips meet. The kiss was sudden and brief and more of a peck and the doctor was out the door, running in the dark corridor before he could react; Blore heard him hurtle down the spiral staircase, aiming to go out in the night.

Cursing, Blore hurried to Lombard's door and knocked, shouted as if he wanted to raise the dead. The two other occupants of their household appeared from behind, on Miss Claythorne's doorway, looking at him vaguely curious, a lot worried. Blore didn't have time to comment, gesticulated for attention: "Get dressed; Armstrong went out to see the judge!"

No room for questions, going to the essential. For all response, he only got wide eyes and very little dynamism.

"For the love of…, move your arses, men! The judge isn't dead, we were played!"

Swift as a cat, Lombard jumped on his wearing, checked for his gun and ordered _Vera_ to lock herself in. Better be safe, Blore could be saying nonsense after all.

Both of them hurried, hot on the doctor's trail, went out and saw on the long twisted path going to the cliffs a hurried but recognizable silhouette when a lightning brought their surroundings to life. They rushed forward, unbeknownst of the pursued and tried not to let the darker spot get out of their sight.

Blore had the macabre feeling that the little soldier boys they were wouldn't pass the night, not all of them; that Armstrong like them all was playing a farce in a puppeteer's hand. A dread, one like he hadn't felt since now tugged at his bowels urging him to go faster even if it meant breaking some bones on the slippery way. The five other's death had rattled his confidence, had brought out his guilt and shame to light, but this? The death of the doctor would be felt that much more visceral.

Lombard suddenly caught him by the elbow and stretched a finger downwards. Dimmed by the wind and the rain, struggling to exist; there was a small oil lamp but it was enough to identify two men around it: Armstrong, short of breath, doubled over and the judge living and breathing, holding the light, set back and waiting.

Blore was on his way to confront them but Lombard stopped him and made a sign to watch in silence first. He did as told, having learned to respect the hunter's instinct when it came to bumfuzzled situations, the gun ready in case.

Everything went very quickly, Blore didn't understand at first. For whatever reason, Armstrong moved forward, nearing the cliffs until it was right under his toes, peering into the darkness like it held all the answers to life and the mysteries of the world. It didn't make any bloody sense.

Worried, he wanted to go down again, warn him that he was going to…, but Lombard stopped him once more. This time he aimed the weapon, pressed the hammer, he stiffened without shaking. The moment the judge started moving and shoving, announcing the inevitable – the doctor falling to his demise head first – he shot. And the light blew out.

Blore bolted like a rabbit, ran down, stumbling as he went, prayed he wouldn't break his neck and fall in the precipice himself.

"Armstrong! Edward!" He called through the rain covering his cheeks.

A familiar hand caught his pullover and backed him away from the void, took him in a vice like embrace. Fleeting memories came back to him, like layers of sensations: the hot breath, the tender words in his ear, the reassuring firmness of his chest.

"I'm here," he breathed in his ear, "I'm alright."

His white voice made Blore understand how much the other was perturbed as death had skimmed past him, gripping Blore like his life depended on it until they heard Lombard join them. Blore jumped back, squatted in a vain attempt to find the lamp in the dark. The thunder had ceased.

"Can you tell me why a man, supposedly sane of mind decides to go out in the storm, in the middle of the night without support, to go meet a possibly crazed nutcase?!" shouted Philip Lombard, incredulous. "Or are you just that intoxicated?"

His voice had changed, as if a screed had made him sound muted these last few days to very moment. Blore too sensed an uprising operate inside him. The judge, now really dead, the body at their feet, there was nothing to be afraid of. Four little soldier boys had survived the night. A hiccup came out of him, then a second one until an irrepressible laughter took over. He had survived.

"What the…, my word, he lost his bloody mind. Come on, help me get the block back at the house before he falls ill."

The two stooges dragged him back the twisted path, sliding in the mud. Lombard cursing against this dimwit, Armstrong advising they give him a brandy for the nerves.

Near tears but silent Blore sat down on a chaise longue. Lombard went to get Miss Claythorne and the brandy.

Armstrong sitting by his side finally talked, mostly to himself: "So it was the old Justice Wargrave after all." His clear eyes ringed with red locked on Blore's narrow ones who acquiesced. "He asked me to look down below, he wanted to show me something and I did as told. I felt his hand on my shoulder but it was too late, he was ready to shove, and I would have –"

"Been swallowed by a red herring," interrupted Vera Claythorne, at the salon's entrance Lombard at her side.

Blore straightened up with a face – always this pain that won't let him forget his memory-less torrid night – extended his arm to take the offered cognac.

All four looked at each other, but gone was the paranoia and suspicion. The rain kept on poring violently and the wind never stopped howling against the windows, but nothing scared them anymore. Relieved, the couple went back upstairs, having agreed on searching the judge's things in the morning for any incriminating evidence.

"You're going to be able to get some sleep?" Asked the doctor once he was alone with Blore.

His frame was slouched from exhaustion and his hands shook. He was soaked but that didn't seem to bother him, his eyes boring into him. Blore shut his eyes, feeling vertigo. He wouldn't have said no to another glass but fatigue was that much stronger.

He felt the doctor's fingers on his hand; Blore removed it as if burned, "yeah, yeah, go rest, I'm going to stay a bit longer here. Got nothin' to worry about now, eh?" He tried some humor but with no real conviction, "just keep the lights on, you know, just in case."

He closed his eyes, the doctor dared touch him again, his hair, caressing softly and the detective slumbered away.

___

 

A sleepless night for the doctor: started in terror, continued in orgy; let's not forget the most delightful interlude with the sergeant (for whom the crusty details were kept from his memory it seemed); then terror again, under the heavy rain when the judge – how could he have known? – had planned his demise the same way he did the five other guests.

But Blore had been there, as back-up, had called him in the dead of the night, cried his name. There was something reassuring in all of this and despite everything Armstrong found himself smiling at the memory. Of course, the bloke now sound asleep was giving him the cold shoulder, as the tension fell but nothing could erase any of it.

Armstrong was stroking his hair distractingly, half in dream, half in thought. Still overwhelmed by almost dying, he really would have liked a drink too but that would have meant breaking the contact. For the first time since his arrival here he refused himself that drink. He had changed since Louisa Mary's death, had fought the excessive drinking, still was; now was certainly not the moment for (more) pity drinking. He would wait the first rays of light to make coffee and go search the judge's things. He still could not believe it. How? Why? Why him? What had he done to deserve this living nightmare? It had to be linked to her. Was his hubris to haunt him forever?

His hands were shaking again. Bloody hands! How ridiculous for a surgeon; former surgeon. He shut his eyes, made himself think of something else instead of doing circles in his head. He forced himself to think about last night, the evening, of Blore dancing, literally collapsed in his arms. It had been a good sensation, a good moment that insinuated itself in all the paranoia and general insanity. And then Armstrong went back to his room, too inhibited to even get the door properly closed; Blore had entered without a word as he had started unbuttoning his shirt. The poor thing didn't last long once the other man put his hands on it.

Everything quickly escalated; Armstrong well aware of what was happening hadn't even tried to stop any of it. Why would he have? Apparently both wanted, needed. Not once had his hands shook, not once had he thought about the dead or Blore regretting it. Blore had bitten him everywhere his mouth touched, his hands squeezing his arms and groping his behind; he had pushed them and made them fall on the bed, growling, salivating like an animal, their breath mingling, close, so very close…

Armstrong must have fallen into sleep because he jumped a bit when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. A strong smell of ground beans touched his nostrils. Coffee. What hour…

"You are still soaked, Doctor Armstrong," he heard the disapproving tone in Miss Claythorne's voice. "Here, take this and go dry yourself up."

He didn't have a choice in the matter when a steaming hot cup was forcefully placed on his lap. But, what if… no, the judge was the one, no need to be afraid. But Miss Claythorne had been a guest amongst all those murderers; surely she too wasn't of the blameless type. Wanting to prove to himself he had nothing to worry he took a burning sip. Nothing grave happened to him except for the third degree burn he subjected his oesophagus to.

Blore wasn't there anymore.

"He went to the kitchen to prepare a semblance of a brunch. It is half past ten already," informed him the young woman as her eyes followed his to the empty space.

His cheeks reddened a bit, not in shame, but he wasn't prone to disclose his private fondness, even less what kind of intimacy he had (or had not) with their shared acquaintance. He didn't comment, disciplined his face to natural boredom and thanked her for the beverage.

"A-ha!" Suddenly exclaimed Philip Lombard walking in on them, multiple sheets of paper in his hands – Blore appeared too at the door frame, intrigued. "Look at that, here's a draft of the judge's confession letter. It is quiet thorough and a fascinating read. I'm sure he had a blast, the old goat. It'll need some fiddling with…,"

"That twisted swine," groused Blore looking at his feet, comic with his spatula in one hand and apron noosed around the waist. "If he wasn't already dead, I'd end him again myself. Degenerate fuck."

It seemed Blore and his red cheeks had decided to look everywhere but in his general direction.

"Of course," approved Lombard smiling to the ears for some reason, "but I suppose, hadn't he already met his maker, none of us would be here today enjoying a brunch in such lovely company. That said, isn't it your omelet I smell roasting down there, detective?"

Blore fled to the meal's rescue, grumping against the pitiful state of the kitchen. But in the light of the smell, the harm was already done. Armstrong sighed: "It won't be Mrs. Rogers' cooking but it'll have to do, I reckon. What about Mr. Narracott? When's he taking us back?"

"I'm afraid with tonight's storm and heavy wind of this morning, no skiff will be able to approach the island," said Miss Claythorne with regret. "This bloody place will be our abode till at least tomorrow."

As if to come to her aid and prove the contrary, Lombard went up to her and enlaced her simply: "Come on there, it's not that terrible, little bird. Now the four of us got the house to ourselves."

He winked at Armstrong who sighed, not seeing it as brightly as the adventurer did as long as Blore acted like some frightened maiden.

Leaving the couple its intimacy, he got up and went to his apartments, following Miss Claythorne's advice and be presentable and dry. Taking off the infamous shirt now good for the trash he discovered marks of bites and scratches left by Blore's passion. Even his arms were sprinkled with finger dots where he had held him. He understood now the distraught figure he made and why he refused to look anyone in the eye moments ago. His drenched shirt betrayed him and the doctor's complexion did mark easily. He laughed as now everyone didn't just suspect but knew.

What about him? Had he left something on the other's body to remember him by? He doubted it. Knowing himself, he preferred the murmur of words to biting flesh. But maybe he went out of his way to leave a love bite; he'd like that. Blore had a good taste, strong of tobacco (alcohol and drugs) but also something much more subtle, a light fragrance he couldn't quiet place – maybe a cosmetic of some sort or after shave. Anyway he would have liked to know.

Armstrong trimmed lightly his beard. Knowing the importance of social appearance had always helped him go through difficult situations. Questions and accusation had been asked when Louisa Clees died (rightfully, he forced himself to admit, he always needed to admit it, never forget). He tried a smile in the mirror; a scary thing. He tried stopping the trembling; to no avail. He must be hungry, he needed something in his belly or things would get worse.

Ready, he opened the door and found himself facing the detective, eyes shifty.

"Have you been waiting a long time behind that door?" inquired the amused doctor.

Blore blushed but did not refute. Armstrong stepped back to let him in, as that was what he wanted. Last night he hadn't been that shy to invite himself in his personal space. He kept himself from commenting out loud seeing how agitated the other was.

Blore didn't say anything and Armstrong waited for him to put words on his thoughts with patience but always keeping his eyes on him. Blore wasn't a handsome man in the traditional sense; his shifty eyes – whilst having a haughty head carriage –, sweating and blushing easily: he didn't inspire confidence to others nor didn't seem to have much. His voice, too low and gravelly always seemed to hurt his mouth when sound got out. Moreover he didn't wear the suit well and obviously couldn't knot a tie fashionably, and his manners where quiet colorful.

But he was far from plain. Maybe small of height he stood tall, his silhouette was muscular and gait decisive. Armstrong loved the touch of his dark hair. The lines of his face were remarkable in their finesse. His hands too were alluring, brawny and busy, attached to strong arms. Confusingly, Armstrong wasn't particularly attracted to men but he was a hedonist and never refused his eyes to look at a beautiful thing.

Finally the detective cleared his throat, understanding that Armstrong will not make this easy for him. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, I, I am sorry for earlier, I mean yesterday. Well, last night," he tried saying flustered. "For the, well, the… oh, and bugger this." He made the vaguest sign of the hand pointing at his entire body, certainly trying to show the marks left behind that everyone must have seen.

Armstrong almost laughed out: "I like them," he said matter of fact. "What about you? Is there something I have left on you?" He asked, very much interested by the answer.

More red than Blore wasn't of the realm of the possible it seemed. Shoulders slouched in shame he raised his pullover lightly but enough for him to see at hip height a purple stain the size of his mouth. Quickly it disappeared but Armstrong smiled; lick and suck, he'd always enjoyed that too.

"I-it doesn't bother you? You know, that they know – _think_ – that, that we, that, of us," was the vaguest question of all.

"Oh, I certainly think our friendship and private life in general are the furthest things in our two lovebirds mind. Maybe it gives them something to talk about between two romps. And by the way, Mr. Blore, I am not 'like that'."

Blore didn't seem to understand, shook his head in confusion, grumbling incomprehensible things. His eyes weren't bad looking at all, thought the doctor, maybe of an ordinary light brown, but vivid and very expressive. His emotions easily betrayed at their simple observation. No wonder the detective kept very little eye contact with his counterparts; those eyes didn't do him any favors in his line of work – a bit like tremors in a surgeon's hands.

Still, Armstrong had a hard time understanding why this extreme agitation. Things like that happened – as nasty as some think them to be (he himself didn't fantasize that much on people of the same sex) but graver ordeals had happened since. He had almost lost his life (and Blore saved him) and five others already had.

"If I may," finally said the doctor, the silence becoming a bit too ominous, "I assure you that you thoroughly enjoyed yourself last night and that you really have nothing to reproach my performance. After all you are the one who came to me in this very room. Not the other way around."

Blore's eyes went wide and he seemed flabbergasted by what he just heard. Armstrong understood then that he had been held responsible for whatever predicament Blore thought himself to be in. Anger flared inside Armstrong. What had happened last night wasn't a bad thing. It just sort of happened.

"That's not what this is about," formulated thickly Blore, his voice stuck between his teeth as he fought for every word. "I'm no fuckin' pansy. Last night was all kinds of wrong."

Seemingly incapable of continuing this conversation, he went to the door but stayed there, uncertain.

"Very well, let's agree on disagreeing."

Armstrong turned his back to him, took off the clean shirt he had on, showing his naked back and explicitly the fine red lines adorning it. Ignoring him completely – while very well knowing Blore fixed him – Armstrong chose another garment, a bit too scalloped on the edges, a bit too light for the season, all around too revealing. No trace will be left unseen putting everything in highlight.

"Let's eat," he said, brushing past him, still cross by Blore's behavior and rebuttal.

Blore followed, stupefied.

At brunch, the omelet was a bit dry but all the rest was pretty decent; the bacon crisp and the juice fresh.

Lombard didn't waste an opportunity to compliment Blore, in his own way: "You have to admit, Tubs, it's rather unconventional for a cop to know how to cook. Really, you have got some hidden skills here, even though it's the stay-at-home kind of skill.

Not really knowing if it was a backhanded praise or not – surely more of an insult in disguise knowing Lombard, but in doubt… – he nodded, concentrated on his plate.

"Aren't you cold, dressed up like that, doctor Armstrong?" inquired Miss Claythorne.

Armstrong smiled, hearing Blore almost choke. He had waited for that question. He looked at her, deliberating stroking the reddened skin of his neck: "Not at all, on the contrary. All those adventures, I need my tension to desperately fall back down to normal."

Miss Claythorne acquiesced, a light blush on her cheeks but a small smile tugging her lips. Her attention now always drifting invariably (but discreetly) towards Blore. Lombard didn't have the same decency and burst out in a fat laugh filled with innuendos.

Porcelain ricocheted and Blore sat up as if burned by hot liquid, red with ire, the chair toppling over. From crimson he went to livid and swore so crudely all were round-eyed. He threw Armstrong such a furious look he became speechless, unable to justify his conduct. Blore stormed out and all heard his bedroom door get slammed.

After a moment of silence, the trio talked about their return to the continent as if nothing and agreed on what to say to explain the massacre of a half-dozen people. Lombard tasked Armstrong in giving Blore the judge's letter. Belonging to the authority body, the police would be more trusting having a colleague as interlocutor.

The couple readily spoke in hushed tones and soon left the doctor alone with his meal. Lombard left him with a pat on the back, reassuring him that all would turn out alright, that Blore was only being dramatic.

By himself, the doctor didn't even try to contain the trembling of his hands. He focused on his breathing, made himself clear the table and clean the tablecloth. Simple things he saw his domestic do; not that hard in the end. Tomorrow he'll leave this godforsaken place and would take back his practice, his habit at the racetrack, go back to his favorite gentleman's club. A way of life that didn't involve nor require the presence of a certain sergeant inspector. But when his hands found the confession in his pocket curiosity got the better of him. Surely, he wasn't obsessing now, was he?

Later that day he decided to go see Blore and hand over the incriminating document, but found out he was hesitating to knock. He listened first, not wanting to disturb him – maybe he was asleep? He tried to convince himself that he should respect Blore's desire for solitude and postpone the task to tomorrow. Armstrong shook his head and reprimanded his cowardice.

He knocked once, than insisted when no one answered. "Blore, I know perfectly well you are here, open up," he called.

He didn't want to try the doorknob, not wanting to pass as too imposing. After some time insisting on the door, a stir was heard on the other side and the door opened briskly without having to unlock it. Blore left the door wide open without a glance and went back to the suitcase he was preparing for tomorrow's imminent departure.

Armstrong accepted the invitation and closed the door quietly. The open window brought in the sea air; the wind was surely chasing the black clouds of the tempest but the inspector's mood was storm-like.

"This is for you to give to the authority that'll be in charge of our case", he said, verifying Blore saw him put the envelope on the bureau. "It is the judge's confession as to not be prime suspects in this gruesome affaire. Lombard also took care of the vinyl to avoid too many uncomfortable questions.

Blore nodded, too occupied with his belongings, expressing vividly his wish to be left alone. Armstrong leaned against the table and asked squarely: "Who was James Landor?"

Blore stopped moving but refused to look at him. Between clenched lips he grated: "How's that your bloody business? Bugger of before I throw you through the window."

Armstrong snorted lightly but didn't comment. Blore was a force of nature; with some struggle he'll clearly be able to kick him out of his room with sheer brute force.

"According to Justice Wargrave's confession letter, you beat a young man to dead, one whom had been arrested for a minor felony. Apparently, the appointed attorney, aghast, complained virulently and his words obviously didn't fall in deaf ears. As for you, I guess your superiors covered the whole thing up, given the victim's dishonorable… _style de vie_. On the contrary, I am sure you gave your department the very image of virility and machismo."

Blore had his back to him, eyes glued to the outside. That mustn't have helped him escape because he took his head in his hands. After a few moments he gave the doctor a haunted look, seemingly asking why he was doing that.

"Us guest here aren't choir boys," continued the doctor, "you need to earn your place on Soldier Island, don't you? The judge may have been batshit mad and a sadist but not a frivolous imbecile and he knew our most heinous, bleakest sin."

In two strides Blore was on him, his fury just barely kept in check under distorted features. He took a handful of fabric and formed an aggressive fist.

"It was his fault!" he cried. "This degenerate… never bloody ever had I wanted to even touch the wanker! He fornicated in public space, that's punished by law, that's all there is to it."

Armstrong couldn't move, forced back on the desk, he could only move his pelvis up and sit on the furniture. He caught Blore's wrist but not to subdue him – which would have been in vain – but to keep his balance and height superiority. He was so close to his face he could see the fine purple lines under his eyes, taste the beads of sweat filling each crevasse of skin, feel every spray of spit.

"But not punished by death by beating, now," he murmured in his ear, inhaling the heady scent.

Blore looked away, seemingly ashamed, but still holding onto Armstrong, now with less hostility and more like a drowning man. Armstrong put his other hand behind his head caressing the nape. The detective's breath became less laborious and he straightened; visual contact lasted only a moment before Blore released the doctor, mumbling a semblance of apology. He pulled on his own shift under the pullover and threw a worried look.

"And you want me to give this letter, isn't it too incriminating? For us all?" He asked, wanting to change the subject.

Armstrong stood up. Why was he trying so hard? All he had to do was leave the envelope and be on his way. But he didn't want this conversation to end.

"You knew Landor? Had he wronged you before the arrest?" He asked instead, feigning to ignore Blore's distress.

Seeing that the doctor wouldn't let go, adding to his already raw nerves he couldn't think straight. Blore shook his head, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, looking at his knuckles: "Not even," he laughed gloomily. "You know doc, I don’t even remember what he looked like before I rearranged his face bloody. But I can't forget the baleful way he looked at me. That bastard thought he had caught my eye and that I was into that kind of perversity. Thought he had gotten a special treatment, going off with only a warning. I couldn't let that happen. What would I have looked like when he'd start bitchin' piss about me, or us."

Blore spoke alone, exhausted by the last couple of days. His eyes didn't even see Armstrong anymore. The doctor left and came back with a sedative and a glass of water. Dazed, he looked at him stupidly.

"Here, take this and get some sleep. It should hold you in bed until tomorrow morning," he reassured.

Instead of taking the glass Blore caught Armstrong's arm, feebly, his eyes boring, for the longest time. His voice a strangled sob: "There was no reason to kill him, was there? Not after what happened last night?"

Armstrong didn't answer. Laying him was easy; he brought the glass to Blore who drank trustily. Now tucked in and asleep, Armstrong stroked his hair a bit and left the room, taking the envelope with him. He'll give it back when Blore would be up and ready to go far from here.

The day was well under way but far from over. The house now strangely quiet where more dead slept than living breathed, Armstrong got reminiscences of a morgue. His suitcase buckled (he had changed himself, preferring a white thick shirt with long sleeves) and decided it was the ideal day to go for a walk on Soldier Island without having to look over his shoulder every second.

He took in the sun, the air, followed by the shadow-like Louisa Clees. He felt stuck. Having slept with someone he would have never bedded if it wasn't for Soldier Island. Had he been wrong? Was it wrong to have liked it that much? Blore's confession troubled him. The man killed because someone looked at him funny and he had deduced that it was the end of his career and pride. Blore was a bad hat to have around, even more when they'll be back to civilization. However, things were never as simple as common sense prescribed it.

The gulls cried all around him, scavengers on the lookout for blood. His hands quivered and there was no stopping them while Louisa Clees kept her dire silence.

___

 

Blore abruptly opened his eyes, meeting the night's darkness. He was so tired and heard no out of place noise. Nothing had woken him but a bad dream (Landor – he had never dreamt of him before). More lucid than in the morning but still numbed by the night he closed his eyes in search of Morpheus. But his empty stomach's growl forbade him any more rest and Blore got up, cursing – anyways he had to close that bloody window, he was freezing his tits off with all that wind and he needed to use the lavatory.

Too violently he closed the window, relieved himself, took a candle, changed in his nightgown covered by his robe. It must have been past three in the morning, everyone sound asleep, no risk of needless encounter. He went to the kitchens; since the death of the staff, the commons were drenched with garbage and rodents won't be long to arrive. The sooner they'll get out of here, the better.

In a relatively clean corner a pot seemed to be waiting for him: half-full with thick soup smelling of fresh ingredients. Blore found a bowl in the mostly empty cupboard and served himself. Quickly he got out of this unhealthy quarter – never would he have tolerated his kitchen in such a state, but no one had the heart to clean up but the strict minimum. Incidentally two of the other chums didn't fit the demeaning type of doing housework – maybe that was what Lombard was referring to when he spoke to him at brunch – as for Miss Claythorne, she would have agreed to them if she wasn't so smitten with the adventurer; not that he could see what she found in him. That said, he wasn't one to judge now.

The soup even cold was very fine. Not a sound in the house. He didn't move, sitting in an armchair the bowl on his folded legs. In a doze, his eyes saw the particular red of Landor's blood on his hands. He had killed him, yes, didn't just put him in handcuffs but had repeatedly hit him, kicked him, wanting to stop that knowing look from piercing through him. Never, had he promised, never would those eyes be right about him. And here he was, a judge ready to kill for that deed and his promise compromised by his own lust and inability to hold his liquor.

Blore opened his eyes sharply, seemingly having heard footsteps but they weren't real. He took his head in his hands; the bowl fell but didn't break, bouncing on the thick rug. He rubbed his temples, felt his fingers damp and shivered when his perspiration sunk down his neck. He was such a mess; didn't remember this night with the doctor but he couldn't convince himself it had never happened like he had with Landor's murder. Armstrong had deliberately been conspicuous about it. Taunting him as Landor had. Proving that he had been right all those years and no number of bloody kicks in his mug could ever change that now.

Dazed, as if drunk he got up, up the stairs, stumbled over some steps. Silence. But now the corridor seemed to have lengthened and a silhouette was waiting for him at its end. Blore shook his head, maybe the doctor had some sedatives left and one or two bottles; he did seem to have a soft spot for them.

He knocked on his door, unconcerned by the ungodly hour. He won't stop until the sodding door opens and that the figure at the end of the corridor disappears. It was Armstrong's fault anyway; with all his questions and his innuendos, insistent and provocative.

"Bloody hell what now?… Do you have any idea what time it is?!" came the scratchy voice.

White spot in the darkness, the doctor's pyjamas almost made his eyes hurt. The smell coming from the room was of musk and soap.

"Blore…, are you the one doing this entire rampage since a half hour?" He asked pinching the bridge of his nose. "Go back to your room."

"I can't sleep," explained Blore sheepish as if grounded.

_I have night terrors. I can't make them go away. I'm scared._

As if hearing or understanding his pleas Armstrong let Blore in; he bolted inside, happy when the warmth engulfed him. "Do you have any sedatives? It'll help me."

Armstrong weighed him silently. Rays of moonlight came and went through the window pushed by wind and cloud. Blore saw how at every movement the pyjamas gripped skin highlighting every bump of flesh, the bulge between his legs… and he should really stop staring (what was he doing here, already? Ah yes, either that, or Lander waiting for him out there).

"It's too early to give you a second one, you can't add them up like cupcakes," he finally said, walking towards Blore but not daring to touch. "What are you doing here, Blore?"

He swallowed, hesitant, sometimes seeing Landor when the moon was blocked by the clouds and Armstrong when the sky was clear again. He shook his head, moved on instinct only, walking up to the bed as it seemed like the only safe haven. But he hesitated, knew it was such an important intimacy issue that he needed the other's consent.

He answered, on the vicious side: "Bugger off, doc, I can't sleep, my room is like the bloody morgue or something, haunted by some kind of ghost."

Armstrong sighed nosily as if the entire situation was a pain in the arse, but Blore knew perfectly well he would submit. Armstrong liked having him near him for whatever reason and Blore wanted a warm bed.

Armstrong went to his bed and back on the mattress, leaving a place ostensibly next to him. Blore didn't need second invitations. He threw his robe on the ground and joined him. The cover was nice and fluffy, the serge smelled faintly of anaesthetic, the one that followed Armstrong as an after-thought, getting dimmer as the days passed.

"Get your cold feet off of me," he heard the exasperate voice in the dark," and stop taking the entire bloody blanket."

Blore complied but smiled, the Landor who now haunted him was not as vocal. Armstrong was so warm and hard it was reassuring in this eerie house. He turned to the center of the bed; saw the doctor lying on his back, eyes open. "Go to sleep Blore, let this absurd situation come to an end."

Feeling a bit cramped, he ground his pelvis, getting closer to Armstrong and wedged himself between the other's pit arm and torso. Settled as such he exhaled with delight. Armstrong had harassed him all day; he had what was coming to him. And a good night was now awaiting.

He heard the other grumble against how it was now too hot and undid the first few buttons of his nightdress. The moonlight showed the thin fuzz on his torso. Blore put a hand on them, felt palpitation under his finger speed up and body hair rise up.

"Tell me about last night," he suddenly asked.

Talking in the dark was so much easier than when their eyes would meet. It felt like none of it was real. He wanted to know how he acted when horny for another man, if he recognized that person. If it really was actually him.

Armstrong removed the hand. "I don't think that's a good idea," he decided to say, the hand still holding his, not sure what to do with it. "Let's not have you do something you'll regret, _again_."

Blore puffed, half grim, half surprised with how in check the doctor was being at the moment. Then he realized what it was about and contradicted: "I'm not here to shag…,"

It was the doctor's turn to be skeptical. He let the hand go, turned to face Blore, on his elbow. The nocturnal light whitened his hair, highlighted his unhappy features, traces of disdain in his eyes.

"Aren't you, now?" came the disbelieving tone. "What do you want then? In my bed, your hands on me wanting to talk about us; I find that more than a little explicit."

Feeling the anger and confusion flare, Blore sat up. How could he think that of him? Armstrong groaned and took back the blanket. But he couldn't go back to his room. His mind was grasping at words.

"I need you to tell me about last night," he repeated, breathing hard. "I wake up the arse sore and you full of bites… but, I'm no sodding degenerate. I just can't understand why, how it bloody happened. Thinking about this even makes me sick,"

The hand on his back shouldn't have felt as reassuring as it did. He firmly closed his eyes, heard Armstrong tell him to go back to his room, that it would be for the best. But he just couldn’t.

"He's over there," his voice was broken and he hoped the doctor would understand the meaning of it without passing for crazy, as he felt haunted by the ghost of the man he killed for no apparent reason.

The doctor's two hands wrapped around his waist; he had his torso hot against his back. Armstrong waited until he relaxed a bit and tipped him back on the bed. He murmured in his ear, light as a lullaby that it was time to sleep and that as long as he was here, he had nothing to fear.

Quickly he drifted in a dreamless sleep and to hell all this nonsense. Back in London no one knew or will know about his affinity – affaire – with Edward Armstrong…

He woke to the sound of waves crashing on pebble shores. It was the first time it happened to him since his arrival. Eyes opened when the light became too important; the morning must be long gone. He was alone in the bed, wrapped around the covers, drool on the pillow. He groaned when the light hurt his eyes.

"Sleep well?"

His head turned to the voice: Armstrong sitting on the window sill like he didn't have a care in the world, kissing a cigarette. His clear eyes were looking at him with the professional sobriety for a phase terminal patient. He felt icky and judging and Armstrong seemed resolute to make him feel uncomfortable.

Blore grimaced; of course Armstrong would shame him. Count on the trendy doctor to boast his advantage, eyeing him with prudence. Twice he ended in his bed and this time he didn’t even have the drug excuse. Grumbling an intelligible answer, he shivered when he took the sheets off and quickly found his robe to wear.

"What are you doing?" Asked the doctor, seeing him go for the door – understanding that Blore was just about to flee, his voice became hard: "You think you can simply slip away, under my very eyes without expecting I react? You do think so little of me?"

Blore turned around to face him, not knowing what the best thing to say was; he settled with looking at him warily. Armstrong was always trying to hide his anxiety with his social prestige and success but twitches where always there; from hands that trembled to outbursts. The doctor was rash and hot-headed more-so than Blore was.

"I told you yesterday we had to talk; you need to open up a bit," he said irritated, throwing his dog end through the window.

He walked towards Blore, not caring that he was looking through him, as long as he stayed here. He let Armstrong put a hand on his shoulder and stir as if to shake him out of his torpor. But what could he do? He didn't know what to say, didn't even understand what it was he was feeling inside. He just wanted to hide his embarrassment.

Armstrong took his chin and lifted his eyes so they met; their faces so very near. Sleeping with him, that had been new to him, comfortable like never he had been with anyone else. Armstrong knew who he was, what he had done, for what flimsy reasons… but his look, it vectored something so alien, so distressing and unfathomable.

Blore was cornered; when the face leaned on him a bit, his first instinct was to repel him with all his will, shout to who ever wanted to hear that he was no queer. But he had no will for that and all that came through was the sound of a wounded animal. Armstrong didn't push it, froze, his hoarse breath on his mouth.

Something in his demeanor changed, became more serious and intense as if he had made up his mind about something of the utmost importance. He took a big breath: "I want it, William, like you did yesterday and the night before. And I want you to need it too, not only when you are scared and you seek me…,"

Blore swallowed, felt the medical cleanliness emanating from him but he didn't know if it was the doctor speaking, full of curiosity or the murderer with whom he created a connection. Armstrong's hands on him where vibrating as if under extreme pressure.

"I'm not a…," was all that poured out of his mouth with no force, no reasoning behind those words, just a wall.

Did he want this too? He had liked being with him last night; did that mean something? He couldn't recall the night before but dancing in his arms, that had been bloody pleasurable. But sexual desire? He only has to muster Landor, his red smile on that toothless mouth and his predicament becomes unbearable. But Landor wasn't in this room right now, that was the whole point of taking refuge here, where he wouldn't see or know what he was doing or with whom. It was Armstrong who stopped him from coming back. Blore understood that, but it didn't make an ounce of sense.

Armstrong backed a little, thinking maybe he was doing more damage than any real good for his case, ill at ease at having exposed himself so much for so little effect. But Blore missed his warmth and couldn't stop a disapproving growl. The other's hands dropped to his hips, reassuring him that he had no intention of letting him go for now.

That thought was at the same time terrifying and comforting. Blore wanted something from the doctor, he knew that, but didn't know under what form. Was it the same thing that Armstrong was willing to give?

"What do you want?" He asked out of the blue, his voice back, eerily calm to his ears.

A strange smile painted itself on Armstrong's features as he lifted a hand to his hair, caressing; a gesture he had often done those past two days that seemed to sooth him.

"I understand all this is hard on you but I'm willing to take whatever you are able to give," he murmured.

That reassured Blore, to some extent, despite it being the vaguest thing he had ever heard. But he was in charge. And it only seemed normal to give if he was to take the most of his presence.

"No sex, penetrative; nothing filthy," he demanded. "I'm no –"

Armstrong nodded and cut him off with a finger on his lips: "I know," he said with a wink, a relieved smile on his face, "me neither."

He stroked his lips gently and something in his under belly stirred. No one had ever touched him like this in pure sign of fondness; no affectionate lover, no worried parent. He liked it, very much, and Blore wanted to show his appreciation: he fleetly licked the digit, once and waited for a reaction, if that was okay or not.

The doctor's pupils dilated in surprise, and once again their faces close to touching. "I really want… can I kiss you?" came the question in a hot breath.

Intoxicated by new sensations and the other's warmth, William inclined his head, meeting Edward halfway. Edward licked his lips, trying to convince his tongue to join him. Failing, he occupied his mouth on his neck, licking, pinching, sucking. His hands gripped him strongly and pulled Blore to him; at the contact between their burning pelvises, Blore straightened and tried to back away as if burnt. Armstrong gave him space, sensing his embarrassment, but still did look like he had eaten the canary.

"Bloody hell…, that was – Fuck… I should really," Blore's voice scraped, "need to go get changed. For the, the departure. But… sodding hell, it's alright, ok? This."

And that was that. Not waiting for any kind of response, he all but ran to his private room. The chilling air helped his heart from bursting and his sex to settle back down. No sex, he had said. Not with Edward Armstrong. He couldn't have that sort of thing happen. Again.

How was he to reconcile his scorn with the new feeling of want; wanting his tongue everywhere on him? It just wasn't possible. He shivered, sweat beading on his body.

A quick trip to the commodities helped him a lot and soon after, his suitcase found the other three in the lobby. All four had willed their best social façade while waiting to be taken back to the civilization they had been afraid to never see again. Blore went out on the stoop, covered in his trench.

Near the cliffs he saw Edward Armstrong's silhouette looking at the horizon in hopes of getting a glimpse of Narracott's barge. Blore stayed put, looking, asking himself how things could go back to being as simple as the day he got the invitation to die.


End file.
